“C’mon, answer, son - you awake?” A youthful grunt of despair emanated as she disappeared into the bathroom. Business concluded she deliberately ignored the mirror suspended above the porcelain sink while washing her hands.
Heaven knows nobody wants to see that first thing in the morning, she snorted, reaching for a towel with dripping fingers.
Her phone beeped twice and began vibrating on her bedside table as she stepped back into the bedroom. Retrieving the mobile, she flipped it open. A text from the Commander:
SEE ME IMMEDIATELY YOU GET IN
Rolling her eyes, Jeanne dropped the phone on her bed. Well, I’m not going to rush around like a madwoman. Not this morning. It was the usual curt communication she’d come to expect from her section leader, and probably signified nothing of any greater importance than his legendary impatience.
~
Precisely 8:30 A.M., passing through the rotating doors of the offices of ANS (London), Jeanne pressed her security badge on the grey pad and waited for the glass doors to part. Dressed in a business-like grey pinstripe two-piece over an open-necked white blouse, her auburn hair cut in a stylish bob, she moved with the quiet confidence of knowing she could still turn male heads. Her sensible three inch heels clicked on the marble floor, her pearl earrings and matching necklace swinging slightly as she made her way to the elevators.
She rode to the tenth floor, the Commander’s level, where the uniformed security officer, after closely ratifying her ID passed her through. She rapped on the plain white door.
“Enter!”
Obediently, Jeanne pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit and sparsely furnished; the present commander of ANS did not subscribe to the usual luxurious and sumptuous trappings of seniority. A simple oak desk, a phone, a high spec computer with a huge, old-fashioned CRT monitor, and a pair of folding chairs accompanying a beat up, grey filing cabinet, summed the entire contents of the room.
“Sit.”
Jeanne’s nose wrinkled at the tendril of smoke rising from a half-stubbed cigar butt, partially buried in the burgeoning ashtray which retained pride of place on the desk. Whatever’s happened to the law about smoking in the workplace? Mind you, I’m not going to remind him of any laws, current or otherwise.
“Sit, I said.”
“Yes sir.”
Smothering a grimace, she drew up one of the folding chairs and parked herself opposite. The desk lamp aimed in her direction threw him into silhouette. She could barely make out his features. Other than a close-cropped head and stocky outline, she couldn’t have accurately described him. However, I know his voice well enough.
“You’re from Aberdeen, right?” It was more a statement than a question.
“Actually no, sir, but I was there with the Grampian police for a few years.”
In typical bull-like fashion, he barged ahead without acknowledging her reply. “You were an Inspector before leaving the police and joining ANS.”
This time, a definite statement, “Yes sir.”
“And you have a Doctorate in Psychology from Aberdeen University, yes?”
“Yes sir.”
Why all the questions? Jeanne fought down the urge to squirm.
“And your parents lived in Stonehaven, where you went to school?”
“Yes sir.”
Where is all this leading? My personal records are all up to date. What’s the reason behind all these questions?
“So you know the area well enough?”
Well enough for what? “I guess so sir.” Jeanne’s mounting unease showed in her voice.
As if he’d read her mind, the Commander promptly answered her unspoken question. “I want you to build a team in Aberdeen. We have a probable alien under examination at the Turner Institute. You are to find out the whole doings about it, and where it came from. You leave tomorrow. That’s not a suggestion or a request.”
Jeanne’s head felt like it might burst. Instead, her mouth fell open, shock and disbelief manifesting themselves on her features.
A lead post! Wow, but I can’t move away --- not when I’ve got Paul settled here. But a lead post! I’ve been hoping for a lead. --- But to Aberdeen? Oh my word --- No! --- Inner turmoil aside, all she could croak in response was, “What about my son? What about Paul?”
“Take him with. Won’t hurt, and you can drive up there in that ridiculous foreign puddle-jumper of yours. Mind Jeanne, I don’t want too much fuss around this. Your official position up there, so far as outsiders are concerned, will be Government Psychologist studying its intellectual condition.”
“I haven’t been involved in Psychology since I left Uni.”
“Wing it girl, wing it. I’ve told you why you’re to be there. We’ll build a team as needs require understood?”
Not really, but... “Yes sir.”
“Any questions?” His tone suggested that he neither expected nor would harbour any.
“Aaarrmm, nope, I guess not.” But inside, her mind screamed, Hang it, YES! I’ve got thousands.
“Right. Ops will brief you in full. I'll be in touch.”
“Thank you sir... Will do.” God, I just hope Ops can sort everything out in a day, because I know I can’t.
Dismissed, Jeanne left the office, her head spinning. How many mental wounds is a trip to Aberdeen going to rub raw? She’d left the Granite City a few short weeks after her split with Mike, her request to transfer to the Met approved in record time. Wariness about going back however couldn’t fully squelch excitement over the Commander’s tantalizing news.
An alien! Wow! A real live alien! Even after watching the Holborn Incident a million times, I can’t honestly believe an alien would just appear. Surely ‘Close Encounters’ style is the way it’s gonna happen.
3.
Blackburn.
Aberdeenshire.
April 2011
“Paul, you up yet?” she called for the third time. “I swear that lad’s a teenager already,” she muttered under her breath. “Last chance laddie! Its round to your Nan’s this morning. I know its Saturday, but I gotta go into work for a couple of hours. I’m away in ten minutes!”
Hoping the threat had worked, Jeanne hurried back into the kitchen. Time for a quick top-up of hot-n-strong, stand-a-spoon-up-in-it. She placed her mug on the rack, popped in a capsule and pressed the pour button on her Nespresso. --- Mmmm. ‘Perfect cup every time, no more pots to juggle with.’ Her mind replayed the advertising jingle while her beaker filled with piping hot, strong, black coffee.
After a satisfying sip, she shuffled up onto a barstool, and with the mug hanging from her bottom lip scanned the array of photos before her.
Pictures of him. Even after over a week, I still can’t bring myself to think of him as an it, a mere creature.
The local radio station was playing the mushy old hit by Robbie, Millennium. Studying the images, she tapped along with the beat on the granite worktop. Every which way but up, she mused.
It was her job to pick a couple for an inevitable press release. “Can’t keep it under wraps much longer; we need to release something,” the Commander had said. With a smile she chose two of the waist-up shots. Poor old dears would have apoplexy if they opened the Press and Journal and found that on page three, she thought, looking at the others.
“What’s for breakfast mum?”
“You’ll have to grab some cereal hon, there’s a fresh carton of milk in the fridge, but not too much sugar, now. I’ve been watching.”
“What you got there?” Seating himself beside her, Paul picked up one of the photos and stared intently at the print. He was silent for a moment, and then with a sad expression asked, “Is he a prisoner mum?”
“Well, ummm, not really. But ... well, actually… Maybe he is. I guess.” Jeanne’s voice faltered as she considered her son’s question.
“Will I get to see him?”
“Sorry son. I shouldn’t think so. Why?”
“I know him.”
&
nbsp; “What? Don’t be daft, lad. How could you?”
“Not personally, but I know him,” Paul declared adamantly. “He’s a Boggart.”
“A what?”
“A Boggart, like in my book.”
Jeanne, suddenly interested, pushed herself off the stool. “Go get it for me.”
“You said we’ll be late.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Just nip and get it, please?”
Obediently, Paul dashed upstairs to his bedroom and came clumping back down a few moments later carrying a thick hardback. A birthday present from his dad a couple of years previously. It was a bound set of drawings by a local artist specialising in fantasy art. It had cost Mike a pretty packet.
Paul lay the book on the work-surface and began to leaf through the pages. Intrigued, Jeanne leaned over his shoulder to watch. Forgot how vivid and lifelike these pictures are, she thought wonderingly.
Her son stopped at a full page print and tapped it. “There you go.”
Glancing from one to the other, she looked hard at the print comparing it to the photos. “Good grief,” she said aloud, “you’re right. It does look like him!” She thumbed back to the front cover, looking for the artist’s name and bio. He was indeed a local. John Wilson, a studio in Aboyne, not forty miles from where the creature had been picked up.
“This guy knows a bit more than he’s saying,” Jeanne muttered, half to herself. I feel a trip to Aboyne coming soon.
The presenter on Northsound cut short the fadeout on Robbie’s old hit with a local traffic bulletin. Still intent on the remarkable coincidence before her, Jeanne only half listened. An incident on the A90 at Muchalls’. Traffic at a standstill. A petrol tanker had jack-knifed on the northbound carriageway.
Ouch, she thought, remembering the times when she and Mike lived in Stonehaven and the hours they’d spent on the cliff-top road staring out to sea, waiting for traffic to clear. Good job it’s not a weekday.
Muchalls’ bend was a nightmare, an accident black-spot. The snaking road dipped down into a valley with a gut wrenching curve, then a steep climb from the bottom. They’d filled in a good portion of it when they dual carriage way-ed the road, but it was still a nasty spot.
Jeanne was jerked out of the painful memory by her ringing mobile, this particular ring tone announcing her Commander. The head of OWP (Off World Phenomena), an agency set up after the Holborn Circus Incident, was a blunt talking, no nonsense, ex MI5 senior operative brought out of semi-retirement.
“Sir?”
“Mac, get your butt to Muchalls’ ASAP. There’s another one there for you; been hit by a truck but it’s still alive. Pick up Pink on your way. He’ll be waiting in the Asda car park, near the petrol station. It’s a code red, so toot-sweet. Speedo, speedo. Oh and forget about going public with the little manikins. Wrap it up tighter'n a duck’s. Not a peep from now on.”
“Okay Guv, I’m on it.”
Flipping the phone shut, she shut off the connection. Darn! What to do with Paul? No time to drop him off at Mike’s mum’s place now. Guess he’ll have to tag along.
Out loud, she ordered, “Let’s go lad.” Paul didn’t have to be told twice.
Shutting off the coffee machine, Jeanne picked up the keys to the black Range Rover, her company car. She’d been intending to use her little Fiat that morning, but code red meant Blues and Twos and the little bubble car isn’t fitted. She gave a tiny smile at the idea, her mind a whirl.
Another one! Where are they coming from? Then, I hope it’s a female this time.
Paul climbed into the rear, after ensuring his seatbelt was properly fastened, Jeanne backed the big four-by-four from the drive. Mentally, she planned the swiftest route: from her home in Blackburn. Cross the Brig o’ Don, hang a left and down the Boulevard. Briefly, she thought of the times she’d been ‘Boulie Bashing’ with her brother in their sooped-up Nova. All the fun and buzz had been taken out of it now, with speed bumps and chicanes all over the place. Necessary, though. There’d been three deaths in the two years that she and Alan used to race up and down the seafront road.
Now here she was blue lights flashing and siren wailing, pushing a V8 monster down the same route. She grinned, enjoying herself despite the urgency of her mission. No need to worry about the Bobbies. I’m one of them. She pulled a left at Mount Hoolie roundabout and was soon clattering across the cobbles on Market Street, passing the huge orange Rig Support craft, looking incongruous in the picturesque harbour. Hard right at the end of the road and along North Esplanade West, past Duthie Park she sped.
The swings and slides were quiet at this time of the morning; the boating pond hut, shelter to two bedraggled ducks. To her left, the Dee was in spate. She hung a left at the end of the road, up and over the Brig o’ Dee, finally letting the big V8 have its head as she negotiated the roundabout and turned onto the A90 dual carriageway. Climbing the long hill out of town, the Rover’s motor growled contentedly while houses up the bank flashed past. Before long, she was in the countryside, dry stone wall bordered fields on either side. Within ten minutes, she turned off the A90 into Portlethen.
Tom/Pink was waiting by the petrol station. Her heart gave a little skip as she caught sight of him. Opening the front door, he slid in with a simple, “Hey,” his voice rich and deep. Jeanne refused to acknowledge what that did to her insides.
“Hi,” she replied, gesturing towards the back-seat. “This is my son, Paul.”
He turned, extending his hand. Paul shook it tentatively. “My name’s Tom, but call me Pink if you like,” he offered. Turning back to Jeanne he smiled and said, “Go, Go, Go,” in a pathetic Murray Walker impersonation.
Grunting, Jeanne gunned the V8 and roared out of the car park, taking the slip ramp back onto the A90. “It’s only about six miles or so.”
Tom nodded, settling himself comfortably for the remaining stretch of road. Traffic had begun to build up, but it moved aside in response to her siren and flashing blue lights. They quickly gained the crest of the hill overlooking the valley. Here, the road was blocked solid; no slip road on this bit, she remembered. Nothing coming from the other direction, the northbound carriageway must be blocked at the accident.
Jeanne spotted the break in the Armco barrier just as he did.
“There,” Tom said, pointing.
She swung the vehicle through the gap before continuing on the wrong side of the road towards the accident. The road was indeed blocked at the point where a little side road from Muchalls’ joined the dual carriageway, in short order they were there.
Jeanne’s entire body came alive with excitement, her hands trembling on the wheel. Pointing the car’s nose through a dangerously small gap between two other vehicles, she pulled to a squealing stop that had Tom grimacing and clutching the Ape hanger handle with both hands. Jeanne hid a smirk. Wanna ride with me, pal? Get over yourself.
To the man’s credit, he kept his mouth shut, refraining from any obnoxious comments. The local police and a couple of big traffic cars were already at the scene, along with a fire tender and an ambulance. A petrol tanker had indeed jack-knifed, the same one the radio announcer had been spitting about over the airwaves earlier, and she could see through the surrounding, official legs, just a few paces from it … Jeanne’s viciously pounding heart almost stopped in her chest. Tom leaned forward, while Paul, swiftly unbuckling himself, crept up between the two of them for a look.
“Look at that tanker, mum,” he breathed, awestruck. “Wow, check that out!”
“I am, I am,” Jeanne whispered, but her gaze was fixed on a tiny figure rather than the massive Volvo. Throwing off her seat belt, she opened the door and dropped lightly to the damp roadside. It had been raining; it was usually raining this time of year. Could the rain have brought this - what did Paul call them, Boggarts?- out? She wondered. Hardly likely, but currently the best explanation I can see.
“Mum, can I come too?”
“Honey, please stay in the car while I see w
hat’s going on,” she called back over her shoulder. Sure, I know Paul is a good kid and not likely to get in the way. The other officials at the scene don’t, however, and the last thing a load of cops, firemen, and medics at the scene of a crash, especially one involving a petrol tanker want, is a twelve-year-old milling around.
Confidently, she approached the scene, thankful for the official ID which she’d slung around her neck before leaving home. She hadn’t taken more than a few steps before a pimple-faced policeman, fresh in uniform, tried to stop her. Jeanne flashed her card. The Home Office emblem, along with the official photo which she secretly liked, identified her, letting it be known this was her business, and she wasn’t going anywhere except closer. Clocking her badge, the rookie didn’t dare argue, and even hovered at her elbow as she pushed her way through the little throng and up to the front.
The Tirnano - Book 1 'FINN' Page 2